Dark Xanadu by Sindra van Yssel

bubbled over her neckline. She held her head up, looking at the leather office chair behind the desk.
    He tugged her dress up to her waist. She waited for a blow, but it didn’t come. Instead, his hands glided over her soft flesh. He stroked her bottom, her upper thighs, but avoided the aching lips of her pussy, even when she moved her bottom in an attempt to guide him.
    “How does it feel, Angela, to be there, knowing your bottom is exposed for a spanking? To feel the hands that will deliver it?”
    “Scary.”
    “Is that all?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t lie to me. I don’t have to touch your pussy to know that you’re wet, you know, Angela.”
    “Oh.”
    “It’s glistening. Swollen.”
    “I’m sorry, Sir.” She frowned. Fear might be an aphrodisiac of sorts, she supposed, although she wasn’t precisely scared. Anticipation? Something. In any case, pain was definitely not an aphrodisiac, and her body’s betrayal would stop at the first slap on her backside, she was sure.
    “For not telling me the whole truth, I hope.” His voice was stern.
    “Yes, Sir.”
    He kneaded her butt cheeks, rolling soft flesh in his warm hands but never pinching. His touch was firm, and she could feel each finger. She laid her head down on the desk, feeling something unclench in her backside. She couldn’t stay on edge waiting for him to swat her forever. Instead she soaked up the feeling of his masterful hands. It brought up a memory of Edward, who had been an expert at massage. For a moment, she felt as though she were being unfaithful to him, but she shook it out of her mind. He would want her to move on, and she finally was moving on. Whatever came of her relationship with Kent, he had freed her from the past.
    She didn’t notice when one of his hands left her, although she’d been trying to keep track of his hands earlier. It landed on her right cheek, barely registering until it continued to press forward after contact. Then his other hand left her and found a new purchase on her shoulder, steadying her but also holding her down. Here it comes, she thought. But the pat on the other side was the same, feeling more like a pushing than a spanking.
    When he touched her again, he patted her center, his fingers curling to touch her pussy for the first time in what felt like ages.
    “Oh.”
    He repeated the pattern. Right, left, and center. And though his hand made a little more of an impact, it didn’t hurt, as such. And the middle stroke felt downright wonderful.
    The fourth time through, it stung, but she didn’t care. She wanted to feel his fingers caress her sex as his hand curled under. He lingered a bit longer there, stroking her, building the fire that had already been burning to a fever pitch.
    And then he spanked her again. This time she let out a little whimper. She hoped that didn’t stop him. It stung. But it didn’t feel bad, exactly. She couldn’t sort that out at all. Then his finger entered her, and she gave up trying. She was so wet his finger slid in easily at the end of his stroke, the sting and the pleasure so close on top of each other it was hard to tell quite which was enjoyable and which was pain.
    She moaned when it came out again, but not because she dreaded the sting his hand could and did deliver when it was free. Each sting faded to a warm glow, blending with the warmth in her core, spreading from her center all over her body. His finger—or fingers—entered her again, slipped out, piling sensation upon sensation until she wasn’t sure which order they came in any more. She only knew that a fire was building in her inexorably.
    What kind of woman am I, that I actually like this? The question flitted through her head, but it didn’t even matter as she cried out. Her body shook, her legs tingled all the way down to her toes; even her hands felt as if they were coming as they gripped the desk. Tears streamed down her face, oddly only beginning to fall after the spanking had stopped. He held her,